


A Mirror Darkly

by VictoryRoad



Series: The Holiday Sessions [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryRoad/pseuds/VictoryRoad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short Tom Riddle at Hogwarts vignette, originally written for a project where I wrote 1000 words on random prompts from friends.<br/>They wanted either a story I wanted to write but was never asked to, or some not-horrifying hogwarts shipping. At the expense of the shipping, I combined the two.<br/>http://jondarthur.tumblr.com/holidaysessions</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mirror Darkly

“What do you see?”

I squint that little bit harder, but my reflection doesn’t stare back. Instead – far and away the worst outcome I could think of – someone else stares back. He is young, he is grinning, but his eyes have a weight I do not quite understand. He’s unfocussed, blurry, a potential image rather than anything real. I hate augury. This is not meant to be an augur of any sort, which surprises me.

“Whatever your heart desires, you will see it. What do you see?”

I squint harder, but I cannot make out the boy, not truly. I can only see those sunken eyes and the curl of white smile. My fingers curl somewhat instinctively.

“I see nothing of value.” The words tumble from my lips as though I am spitting on some boy I do not know. This is a waste of my time. I cannot fault him for trying – I am, after all, the problem child. There are so many things that have been decided are not quite right about me. I reject each and every one in turn. There is nothing wrong. I am simply myself.

In the common room, we feast like crows on a festive meal. Halloween treats for a week either side. This isn’t what they call it, but it’s how I know it. The world outside is not so different, merely pretending. It pretends not to notice. We pretend to let it. I eat another slice of pie.

In class, I spend the hours wondering what it was that made me desire the boy. That does not quite encapsulate it – there was nothing about him that I wanted, no figure or virtue to him that I wanted to emulate or take upon myself. Instead, it was like staring at the future – something about it was mutable, changeable, as though it waited for nothing less than my intercession to come crashing down. Whoever the boy was, I wanted to know who he was. Perhaps that was my heart’s desire. Perhaps it was just to simply know, and understand myself.

In the common room I poured over writings – whatever I could find, whatever was available, just to elucidate for a moment the strange world of desire magic. It was unknown to me, and the school did not take much effort to teach it. Why should they? Earthly desires were wasteful, and the headmaster was nothing if not a perennial castigator. Purity of mind, spirit, and ambition. They were pointless exercises, all of them. There is no purity in self-denial, only shame and sublimation. Magic of desire is a jewel in a cave, locked away by those too greedy to offer it to the world. I cannot find anything about the mirror. I cannot find anything of value at all. This, it seems, is the operating procedure of the school. We do not learn, we are instructed. I cannot see through this haze alone.

“Tom? What’re you doing?”

I close the book with a loud ‘thud’ as another boy approaches.

Tom Riddle, aged fourteen, was rapidly approaching an awkward age. His time at Hogwarts had been eventful, to say the least, but a recurring theme was taking shape. It was seen quite clearly when Slughorn’s cauldron went missing. It was certainly evident when the stairs stopped moving. It could be seen quite clearly in a certain strain at the edges of Dumbledore’s eyes. It was a truth, universally ignored, that Tom had failed to understand ‘no’.

He would keep to himself to minimise certain things, of course, but his cult remained firm regardless. What condemnation he seemed to need was absent, reaffirmed in purpose instead by those who found a certain freedom in his social failings. He was neither unpopular nor scorned, neither outcast nor beloved, merely that common flower of high schools: the well-known aggressor.

“Sure he’s abrasive, but he’s _ours,_ ” Mina Curnow would tell another at a school ball, her hair casting dark ringlets as she moved. Years later, stories would describe him as a loner, as dark, as brooding. Perhaps he was, but so again were many teenagers, and many more still who were boarding away from their normal lives. Perhaps it was that Tom had nothing to return to – but he was never the only student to pass through Hogwarts without a home to return to, and they were never known to pursue his particular hobbies. It is a diagnosis without merit, but one that he would trade on regardless.

Desire, Tom would discover, was a haunting notion. He cut his own Quidditch practice short, ending an argument with Slytherin Captain Melinda Lavia by storming off the pitch. Even for the young wizard this was unexpected. Dumbledore listened intently to the report, unsure of what to make of it. All British wizards were welcome at Hogwarts, but there was a creeping feeling growing deep in the pit of his stomach. There were reminders, always, of another wizard so many years ago – of death, and war, and the inevitability of history. He had hoped the Mirror would show young Tom something he might have been missing – to better understand himself. In the days since, things had not progressed well. This was at his feet, and he would have to take the blame.

Madam Pomfrey, already a stalwart of the school before her long tenure would stretch into what seemed like eternity, could not understand what was happening. The hospital wing was finding new students each day, each with the markings of misjudged magic. Something was finding these students, alone and weak in the corridors between classes, and experimenting. Simple Auror’s tracing failed each time, no source to be found. The pit in Dumbledore’s stomach was growing. Young Rubeus, a fortunate victim who came away only with a mild confusion, was no help to her.

Tom stalked the hallways, in search of his desire. There were secrets to Hogwarts. Rooms… _chambers_ of them. If he could not know himself, he would at least seek out the answers.


End file.
